Shattered
by Acromania
Summary: And if he could, he would change nothing; as stupid as it sounds. A character study, twist and turns and maybe even redemption. Some AU; ERIS, eventually.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Hello everyone. This is a small piece that came to mind while listening to the song "Shattered" by Trading Yesterday. Don't know where it leads. Could be continued or not._

 _Warning: Drug and alcohol abuse. Might be triggering to some degree. Dark. Read with caution. Not beta-ed yet._

 _If anyone wants to burden him- or herself with being my beta, feel free to write me. I have high expactations, though._

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing, Veronica Roth does._

* * *

 **1: Yesterday I died; tomorrow's bleeding**

* * *

 _Tick. Tick. Tick._ The clock on the ugly concrete wall opposite to the blood and sweat stained mattress grinds his gears but lethargy and so much anger make him motionless – helpless really to stop the time. Is it a man's fate to find his bane in these measures? Seconds, minutes, hours. And all a rush of blood in veins. Pumping with exhilaration, with anger, with so much pain that sometimes the wish to stop is the only reliable thought left. The churning of the stomach, the clenching of the hands – time ticking. _Tick. Tick. Tick._

With all the might there is and a bit more legs straighten and bend to push the body into a standing position. Muscles, hard and lean, flex and for a moment, just a drop of eternity he feels like the pieces click together. Good. Like something worth the time, the energy, the name, the breath coming in hard in- and exhales.

Thoughts more tumble than flow smoothly and with irony he thinks that maybe his thoughts should look to his blood and take up the pattern. Rushing blood, that itches under his skin, that begs him to shed it, to mix with other blood, to sooth his fixation with pain and broken bones and shattered dreams and emotionless eyes. Something to stop the time, maybe even turn it back because as of now there is nothing left.

A surge of tension and then he is calm again – as calm as a caged animal with no road left but one can be. Should he feel more anger for being pushed and bent and broken to fit this game the mighty and twisted play with people like him who have nothing left but a functioning body and destroyed mind? Maybe he should but the anger stays like an arrow ready to fly at the target a few yards away – the target is him.

A glittering catches his grey eyes and without a second thought and a grace no one – not even he himself – expects he picks the bottle up and drinks greedily like a man out of water. And it is whiskey really. He downs the alcohol, burning in his throat and feels like his heart beats in rhythm with the drowning thoughts. Numbness achieved and the crunch of a destroyed ampule under his heavy boots he strolls through his flat aimless, the one-room-heaven that is more like a cage without bars on the windows.

Glass shatters the clock, the room silent and for a second, scoffing, he thinks he wins the fight. When there is nothing to see, it isn't real. A child would think like that. He isn't a child – not in the normal way. But he is innocent in more ways than one. Guilty in more, too.

The amber liquid runs down the concrete wall, draws lines, vanishes in cracks, drops from uneven bumps. A memory tries to cloud his view, more than the alcohol already does. In a show of self-preservation he shakes it away, grits teeth and pulls at piercings until they burn and nearly bleed. He has to leave, but knows he won't ever be free. The thought jumbles through his mind, bounces of long lost feelings, grey remnants of a life he doesn't feel anymore. Detached in too many aspects, no red line to come to conclusions that would mean progress.

Rough hands find hair, pull at it, scrape the skull. Maybe an unconscious motion to build the person he once was. Uneven nails scratch at itching skin, need an occupation to not do something stupid, more stupid than he already is. Biting his lip, hissing softly in pain and sweet, sweet recognition. It's time.

He staggers for a while, ready to give in to the toxin floating through his blood but too stubborn and self-centered to allow it. A sheet of paper, crunched and yellow and stained with tears floats to the ground when his door closes finally. Three words: _They are dead_. If the paper means his dreams, his purposes in life he isn't sure and doesn't really care.

Boots against concrete, purposeful straights that belie the inner aimlessness. Face pulled into a wicked grin, baring teeth in an animalistic display of unhinge. Shadows pass by, if real or imagination doesn't matter. Light flickers, hurts the dilated eyes, the aching head and the buzz in the veins. He reaches his goal, braces himself against the metal bars, takes in the life beneath him like a scientist through a looking glass. His fingers cramp, hurt but beautifully. Then he moves on, not on himself but on instinct, on urge. Not even these decisions are his to make but programmed by nature. Such a coward.

Shoulders connect with people who never would utter a word of complaint. No one plays with an insane predator. He smirks because any other facial expression is foreign. And there is still this itch – like needles in his skin, fire under his feet, nails mercilessly driven into his brain. It gets more pronounced when his eyes single in on one person he always loved like a brother but could never love like an equal. Fascinating that this emotion isn't lost.

"Training room." He announces without a second thought, doesn't show that his own voice startles him and baths in the bated breaths around him. Grey eyes take in the circle of people – friends – and see disgust and grudging respect (for what he is not sure) and avoidance. Then he looks to the man, the number boy. Raised eyebrows meet his statements and then there is a short nod. If he would be another person he might have laughed because really – the Stiff and him, a Nose gone black, were known to hate each other.

Then his legs carry him away again, maybe because of shame or annoyance or knowledge. He ignores the stares burning on his back, through clothes and ink and skin and him. They recognize him for what he is. Loathing and belonging fill him equally, feed anger and the knowledge that he isn't enough. Not in any sense of the word. _Dauntless._

* * *

Grunts and groans, the occasional hiss. Fists meeting barely hidden bone under reddening skin and bruises. High kicks, no one drawing the punches. They dance and their rhythm is off balance but beautiful as old as men themselves. Drops of sweat stain the mats, white with chalk and red from tears wounds cried years or just hours ago. Water drips from the roof above, meets heated skin and mixes with pain.

"It's enough." He says, forearm brushing away the drops above his brow.

"You get us both killed. What has you on edge?" His brother-in-arms and enemy asks and he hates the concern and care clouding that deep voice. He doesn't answer and just turns away, flexes his hands to feel the pain of freshly bruised knuckles, warm blood that is still not enough running along calloused hands and too empty fingers.

"See you in the morning." He throws over his shoulder and escapes the inquiring dark-blue eyes. What if he would stay behind? What if he shares the burden?

 _Pathetic. Weak. Get your shit together._

And he does just that, in the cage of his life, pulls the next ampule and is annoyed that the drops of the liquid need so long to leave their small glassy protection.

His muscles shiver, his heart beats erratic and there is life within him. Life and the urge to use his remaining brain and sharp tongue and working organs to do something with this excuse of existence.

Eyes sharp for once single in on the sheet of paper. A slip of fate. An evident to his downfall. He died yesterday. Looking at his knuckles – and he bleeds tomorrow.

* * *

 _Thanks for reading - review please._


	2. Chapter 2

_Warning: Drug and alcohol abuse. Might be triggering to some degree. Dark. Read with caution. Not beta-ed yet._

 _If anyone wants to burden him- or herself with being my beta, feel free to write me. I have high expactations, though._

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing, Veronica Roth does._

* * *

 **2: Falling into your sunlight**

* * *

 _Turned backs and regretful glances meet his unsteady eyes. Eyes old in a young face, barely first appearance of a beard on some patches of skin, barely old enough to understand meaningful words like friendship and probably too young to choose one thing for the rest of his life. And though all of this is true, there is a thing more true – even if it is a paradox: he belongs somewhere else._

 _His blood evaporates in a small cloud of smoke and just like that his blue aura fades. Scoffing, he judges them. They should have known. How could they not? And judging them is so much easier than meeting tearful eyes and hateful mouths pressed into thin lines._

 _Cheerful laughs fill the air and hands calloused and not afraid to show emotions clap his back with firmness. For a second he belongs, is filled with awe and a sense of being right where he should be. Then he sits down, the next name is called. A name wrapped around his heart with two others, making the muscles flex to keep him alive._

 _He contemplates looking away, answering the joyful chatter around him but grits his teeth because choosing black means choosing bravery above his shameful incompetence to meet social situations head on. And like that his decision remains and he meets the eyes of a brother in all the things that matter. He smirks, shamefully arrogant and so heartwarmingly, that his own heart hisses in acknowledgement and tumbles for a few seconds. Blood drops into water, a splash that is more than one decision. It is a separation of family, of memory, of emotion._

 _Hope is something that blossoms easily in a young heart, in a young mind, fills rejection from blood, holes in the chest – mental ones, not physically – and gives purpose. Something to strive for. Maybe this wish was what pulled all four of them together once. And now they want to find more than just the heavy and sweet feeling of companionship, because you can live through others, but the air will never taste fresh, will never fill your own lungs and your body will give in to the emptiness you left behind. They promised they would do everything to do just that, to find one another but most importantly themselves to live on their own but never alone._

 _Biting his lip when sorrow possesses his body his grey eyes meet the other ones, brown and loud and youthful – full of affection. And colour matters no more because whatever comes their way, they will be victorious and always together and sometime in the future their own person._

 _Before he leaves into the blackness and unknown, he turns around a last time, allows himself attachment and scoffs because nothing will change, not really. 'Be careful' they mouth silently, smirk again and eyes project and tell more than anything else._

* * *

He jerks awake, his breathing rattling and loud and uncomfortable in the wet coldness of his cage – apartment. Frantic hands search something, a relief of memories and pain and something to keep the line to his sanity intact. They find cold glass and it is enough to calm him down, just touching it. He gives in to the illusion that he doesn't need it, that feeling the liquid splashing in the ampule is enough, but without a decision the glass is in front of his lips, the liquid down his throat.

Dizziness overcomes him and he should have known that he is too weak to withstand the pull. Too weak to live on his own. And so stupid to think nothing will change. Everything changes when you grow up too fast for anyone's good. The bitter taste of defeat mixes with the sharp spice of the liquid. Both is drowned easily enough in the numbness that starts to prickle his neck, fingers, legs and finally brain and whole body.

He is awake. Ready to start this day. Four years ago it was his day and with utter hate he remembers his mindset shared with boys who are nothing but unrecognizable faces in his memory anymore. With some melancholy or maybe in the hope to relieve himself of some burden he pokes these images, these evidences that everything was real and not just a canvas in his mind painted with excuses of his existence. It doesn't help. Not one bit. They float away and maybe he should be thankful. Or maybe not. Seeing them again would help to ground him or pull him six-feet-under. Both are desirable circumstances and some part of him is too far gone to see a difference.

Staggering to his shower, dressing, going down to the cafeteria, eating, waiting. All of this is a blur of black-clad bodies, voices too loud and annoying, pushing a sneer on his lips and anger in his eyes, coldness in his heart. He recognizes the man who was and is anything like the brothers he once had, not that he is aware of that.

"Better?" Four asks, sipping his drink, eyes roaming tables and faces and he believes his friendfoe doesn't even know what he is looking for. He envies the former Stiff though, because finding anything or something seems to be his purpose, gives him strength to carry on. Something that his own life lacks.

Instead of an answer he growls lowly from his throat, a sound a mixture of animal and annoyance and Four chuckles but stays silent. It seems he picked up everything that is to know about the broken man beside him, otherwise they wouldn't sit here together.

"Eric?" A voice says and with dread he looks up, meets dark, stern eyes and nods in acknowledgement once.

"You will greet the initiates on the roof. Tell them about their first step." Max says and Eric should decline because he is the last person that should do anything remotely like this. With them. He knows what he will see and his stomach clenches painfully. Anger hugs his back, tenses his muscles, whispers words into his mouth and he wants to utter them before they choke him, but can't.

"And you will help Four through the stages with the transfers. You know the drill." His voice doesn't change, but it doesn't need to anyway. He knows what it means and would he be able to leave his own hell for more than a few seconds, wouldn't he be the fucking coward he is, he would propel his tired body right in the face of the other Leader, punch him until blood flows freely. He would bath in it and maybe that would be the step to take to feel remotely human again.

But he just nods, grey eyes fixed on the receding form of his superior and the liquid downed in his first waking moments numbs him. Not enough to not remember for a minute, though.

He was naïve to think that a different faction could tell him who he is.

* * *

Sun burning in the sky, judging him and the black around. In stark contrast the persons in front of him. Young, determined but he smells their fear. Of him, of future, of life and all the cruel ways it has. He smirks because what a tragic reality it is and what little they know. He once was just like them. He doesn't pity them, not at all, though. They all went through this and maybe that is everything that humans and he have in common.

He remembers himself, being just as hopeful and then shakes his head mentally. But never like this. Never as unguarded, as free, as perfect. A year ago he realized it and the knowledge made itself home in his head. He was always tainted, always not right and every step of his way he was reminded.

A commotion lets him walk to the ledge, take a look down and in something akin to fascination he stares, finds himself wondering. Maybe he should have failed that jump from the train four years ago, too. The image of the girl below changes slowly, her body changing to a lanky blond, limps spread in odd angles and blood a dark bed of roses around on the light-grey sidewalk. Dead teenager, dead friends, dead hopes and dead dreams. It would fit.

Turning around he says his words, but feels nothing, stares them down with cold grey. It seems they get the message, though and the fear and tension is high in the air, makes it smell like sweat and sour. Swallowing, not meeting his eyes. They may be innocent, but they know that staring into the abyss will swallow them as well. It seems like a finely crafted impulse, maybe even instinct. He can't find pleasure in the avoided eyes of the teens. They all feel the danger.

But she doesn't. He chokes on his breath and the sudden urge to avert his eyes overwhelms him. She is the sun. Golden hair, burning eyes and grey clothes. He stares for all the wrong reasons and feels the burn inside of him. Look away, he tells himself and does just that. Grey eyes take in his arms, crossed in front of him to hold himself together or close off the world. Skin is unblemished but for the tattoos that are mazelike like the tunnels of his home and thoughts and dead morals and dying hopes.

Taunting words meet his ears that were deaf for a moment because her roaring existence is too much for his unholy presence. She stares and there is age beyond her years. Curiously not, too. Childlike, too young to know life and the hard edges that destroy bones and everything that holds someone together except anatomy.

She jumps first and that isn't a surprise in the least. He jumps last and tries to keep himself together because without exchanging more than a look or talking to her he knows she is his downfall and can lift him to something he is afraid to reach.

He stands back while his enemy best friend introduces himself but before he can go and show them the life they chose, he holds him back. His nails bore into his skin, into muscle tissue and clothes. He doesn't flinch, is probably used to his antics and raises an eyebrow in an inquiring and damned concerned manner. His eyes stray back to the sun and his voice is hoarse when he whispers:

"She is the sun and I am falling into her light." His brother acknowledges him with a nod, his eyes taking in the reason of life and danger itself and nods once. They are clear.

* * *

 _Thanks for reading - review please._


	3. Chapter 3

_Warning: Drug and alcohol abuse. Might be triggering to some degree. Dark. Read with caution. Not beta-ed yet._

 _If anyone wants to burden him- or herself with being my beta, feel free to write me. I have high expactations, though._

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing, Veronica Roth does._

* * *

 **3: The future's open wide beyond believing**

* * *

She knows that he is watching her, undressing her to her hot core. Not in a sexual, sensual way, because even though she is woefully uneducated with growing up in grey, she would consider herself intelligent enough to not be ignorant of such a gaze. No, he watches her, peels back skin, muscle, sinews, bones until nothing is left than the core that lets her shine. She read books, religious, spiritual books that call this core soul. Annoying as it is, she doesn't understand the concept. More annoying, she doesn't understand a lot of things.

She knows that he is watching her, sees it in the flickering of his eyes, the coloring that goes from black to grey, from dead to even more dead and she asks herself what could kill that fighter. What could cut him up and lay him bleeding to death – figuratively. Then she shifts her weight and throws a punch.

It hurts. It bloody hurts, but it feels good. It feels alive, the bruised knuckles pulsing like a heart in her hands, like a living being and maybe it is enough to let her own heart start again. She wasn't aware how her background cut off her airsupply. She wasn't aware how her mother's warm smiles and her father's stern answers and her brother's annoying ways to be the perfect, more than she, better than she ways smothered her own being.

Now she stands in shirt and boots and pants, all formfitting – not that her slim body represents anything feminine –, all black. And though she was afraid because her test said ' _Unconclusive_ ' and Tori said ' _Divergent_ ' she believes that she belongs. Belongs in Dauntless.

She always wanted more but being honest she was really afraid. Utterly filled to the brim with fear, thick liquid of nightmares and not being enough. Short breaths and beating heart tell her as much even though her blood sizzled on coal two weeks ago and her body unused to training like this should cope slowly. Her name under the line is a mocking evidence as well. _Not enough_. But she wants to fit in, wants to forget the pain of missing her family, the hurt of being too afraid, too selfish, too curious, too lying, too war-affine to belong to just one Faction. And she wants to belong desperately.

She knows that he is watching her and she is so focused to not let it get to her.

* * *

The goosebumps on her arms look deliciously innocent. As do her pitiful attempts to fight. He wants to reach out and maybe brush some of his dirt to her, to maybe let her see the cruel world. Maybe that would be enough for her to fight in honest. He wants to rub his ugliness in her face, grab her thin arms and bruise them, maybe even make her hate him so she has something to fight for. And maybe that would be enough reason for him to have something to fight for again.

He exchanges a gaze with his friendfoe and he nods exaggerated just like he thought he would.

His words reverberate in his head, ' _she is the sun_ ' and watching her fight against her own shortcomings and his undressing stare, he is aware that she doesn't know shit. Maybe that keeps the light within her. For a few seconds he baths in images of what could become of her if she was his. Sweet, spicy bliss. A jerk goes through his body, makes him hard and he groans through clenched teeth and narrowed eyes avert. He wants to be selfish and claim her, make her break and pull her down into the dirt that is his existence.

But he doesn't – not yet, at least. Not until he sees what she could be.

* * *

Air is hard to come by watching her face in the dark and then the light of the train. A face with a wide grin and shining eyes full of pride. Her cheerful laughter fill the cold air when they near Dauntless and with a feeling of dread but appreciation he sees the Uriah guy speak to her. It's good that she makes acquaintances within the Faction she chose. Maybe it will keep her alive. ' _Bullshit_ ' his mind whispers and flashes brown friendly eyes and three not-quite-there faces in front of his eyes. He bites his tongue and looks away.

As pitiful as her performance in the fighting ring was, as perfectly strategic and intelligent her plan was to make her team win. But what is forefront on his mind is keeping up appearance, so he sneers and scowls and white-knuckled stares before he turns away and stalks away and feels the stares of innocent souls and an asking glance on his back.

There is no clock anymore to remind him of his time running out and it is both freeing but frightening. Is it better to die head on or woefully ignorant? He showers with cold water, freezing his skin and muscles and hopefully it reaches deep enough to freeze his own hell of a soul over as well. He soon has to go to the bitch again, speak about the ' _danger_ ' posed by teenagers with frightening useful brains. No pressure there.

The glass of the ampules chimes softly in the bag his right hand roams through. He feels his muscles twitch and he knees are weak and he went too long without his next dosage. Staring at the liquid – angel and demon on his broad shoulders – he opens it and swallows the drug. Stumbling he settles down on his mattress, his gestures sloppy. His eyes focus on the ampule still in his hand and some part of him recognizes the destruction coursing through his veins light wild fire. Alive but dead he feels and maybe his heart should just stop bleeding and die. It's what he would prefer, but knowing his luck he would have to live with his guilt and shame and hurt and pain through all years to come.

Sometimes he asks himself if he is a coward or too stubborn to not contemplate suicide. He wants to look into this, but the liquid takes full effect slowly and a sigh leaves his chipped lips. The glass hits the concrete, fragile but strong enough to not break. He wishes his soul would have been like that as well. But it was just fragile and is in pieces now.

A knock disturbs his way into numbness and he yells a ' _come in_ ' at his cage door. When it opens he is slightly surprised but when he sees his best friend slash enemy not so much anymore.

"She's divergent." Four says abruptly after stalking back and forth in front of his poor excuse for sleeping arrangements.

"What?!" Eric bellows in response and feels an icy fright crawling through his bones.

"You heard me." Four grits out through clenched teeth and clenched hands and angry steps on concrete floor, through shattered glass and broken existence of a man as old as himself but looking so much more tired than the former Stiff himself.

"Of course I heard you, asshole." Eric mutters and smirks cruelly at the scowl he receives in response. They stay silent, eerily so. Anything that both can think surrounds itself with the word ' _fuck_ ' and they don't need to utter their thoughts.

"I can delete the feed, come up with a stupid explanation…" Four starts to say. But the former Nose is too far gone in the scenario, in blood and poor excuses and hurtful reality to really hear him.

"We are fucked. The sun's going freaking down." Eric's eyes are fixed on his bare feet but a sudden movement draws his attention to the other man in the room. A hand lands on his shoulder and he tenses at the contact.

"I won't let it happen. Promised." Four says with conviction and Eric can just stare.

* * *

She doesn't know what she expects when she sees him again on the train back from capture the flag. Maybe her naïve thoughts got the best of her again but she had hoped for.. anything. A glance with his impressive eyes that can't hide the broken human he is or words spoken to another initiate, maybe an insult that wraps around a tiny compliment. Instead she receives the cold shoulder and ridiculously is envious of Four because at least he gets the scowls and heated gazes and the sneers. She feels weak for wanting something as dreadful as that, to be acknowledged even if it means in the worst way possible.

She listens to the others snickering about him being a poor loser but something makes her feel as if that isn't true at all. Looking at him all she can see is a broken man, someone who doesn't aim for anything and even struggles to breath to remain living. She asks herself if he has to force himself to keep going even though he never falters in his steps, never appears weak but oh so intimidating. And she believes that everyone – the initiates, leaders, Dauntless, the Factions – can't see him as she sees him. She isn't sure if that is good or really, awfully bad.

Whatever it is her eyes stay on him. Sometimes she lays awake in fear of the other initiates around her, sometimes because her heart bleeds for the family she left behind, sometimes because of the knots in her stomach when she thinks about the things Tori and her mother told her and sometimes because she can't stop picturing his grey eyes.

But she doesn't admit too many things, too emerged in surviving and living and fighting for dear freaking life. And as far as she is concerned that is pretty welcomed. Otherwise she would have to find reasons for a quick beating heart whenever he is near or burning cheeks when she looks at him and uneasy stomach when his voice rings around her and the others.

She wants to be Dauntless, prove herself and survive because her instincts tell her that this will be everything there is for her to do in a short amount of time. Staying alive. She tries to convince herself that the future's open wide, beyond believing. She has to even if fear and intuition tell her otherwise.

* * *

 _Thanks for reading - review please._


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Hello everyone. Thank you so much for the reviews, favorits and follows. And I made it into a community. Check it out, please because this pairing and the possibilities it brings deserve much love. Let me know what you think. I wrote this in the middle of the night and am not quite sure if I like it._

 _For your information: I have planned a lot of chapters for that, because of the lines of the song I am using. If I can finish this, I am not sure. But I will give my best. If you want to contribute, want me to think about different ideas, please let me know. I am always open for that._

 _Sorry for the long note. Enjoy._

* * *

 _Warning: Drug and alcohol abuse. Might be triggering to some degree. Dark. Read with caution. Not beta-ed yet._

 _If anyone wants to burden him- or herself with being my beta, feel free to write me. I have high expactations, though._

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing, Veronica Roth does._

* * *

 **4: To know why hope dies**

* * *

The blood is still pumping through veins that build a fine network under too pale skin. Zip-lining was one of the experiences she thinks she will never forget. Not the air pushing into her lungs, the fear of nearly suffocating and the exhilaration of flying. It made her forget anything but one thing, because the bright moon hidden behind stormy clouds is an impressive grey, just like his eyes. She asks herself what they would portray other than the brokenness that screams from them. She asks herself if he did this as well. But then she remembers Uriah's words, that this is a Dauntless' tradition, for Dauntless-born initiates and she was just so lucky to be a part of that experience.

Then her body meets the waiting arms of brothers and sisters she doesn't even know the name of and her boots click distinctively when they meet concrete. She never was a sound person, Abnegation too silent for her liking, Dauntless too loud, but now the wind sings and his voice is a caress against her bruised knuckles and sweaty back and whenever he is around really. A part of her, that she guesses is scarred because of her upbringing and because of that not thinking rationally, longs for him to see her know and maybe gain his approval with her act of bravery, with the life that bleeds from her eyes like the wound on her left ear back when they threw knifes. But even though her family is around her and they yell and laugh and congratulate her, she feels a bit lonely, a bit not belonging and that irrational part of her knows it is because of his absence.

When she is back in the compound her feet aren't ready to carry her to her dorm because there is just too much within her that wants an escape. Being always invisible it isn't a new feeling or something she is uncomfortable with. But maybe the past few weeks changed that, evoke something that was always there but suppressed with duties she fulfilled but never to her best abilities. She was only sixteen but felt already as if there was too much going on within her. Or maybe her age was really the thing that build knots in her stomach and chaos in her thoughts and hilarious dreams of silent encounters with a certain instructor slash leader slash broken but oh so intimidating former nose.

So she lets her feet carry her wherever they want, sleep not an option, being calm as well, facing the others not something she wants to face.

* * *

He is back to pacing, glaring, sneering at nothing in particular really, but everything at the same time. At himself mostly. Maybe he should have cleaned the remains of his mirror because even the small glistening pieces mock him. Cynically he thinks at least they now show a small piece of reality because finally he sees how small and immature and what a fucking waste of space he really is.

His hands go through his hair, pull at the strands and press them back down. He feels like he can go up the walls but never reach the high. More mocking than the shards of mirror are the ampules on plain display because in his anger and disorientation he threw the bag through his cage-apartment.

Amazingly enough he finds a small flicker of… something within himself. He is afraid, a bloody coward to admit that it might be hope. The word alone feels wrong traveling through the few intact synapses and he can't even dream of letting the letters build in his dry, scratchy throat and roll from his tongue, through chapped lips.

 _Stupid_ , he thinks and doesn't know if he refers to himself, life itself, the girl in his every waking thoughts and even dreams or the plan his enemybrother and himself came up with.

And the energy is still there. He longs for a fucking fight, for tremors in muscles in exhaustion and not the cold sweat that is at the moment on his forehead and hands because cold turkey is best served freaking hot. But he wants to challenge himself to that. He has to. Because the sun has to go up tomorrow as well. He can't even imagine a world without that. Without her. The sun.

He throws open the cage door, ignores rules and his own urges and the nearly too strong pull of small glass ampules with a spicy liquid that could stifle that something – hope, goddammit, at least think it – and make him numb to his own feelings of despair and longing and the hate.

 _Look at you, you weak idiot_ , his mind taunts; taunts with a too fast beating heart and the feeling of suffocating because he needs the next dosage, depends on the kick and the numbness and the feeling of flying away. A man like himself shouldn't be allowed dreams, but he never was a stickler for rules, never was anything but selfish and self-indulgent and a waste of breath and just like that he finds himself with dreams at his blood-soaked hand; still red even though he washed them countless of times. He guesses that the blood of friends will never go away, just like the cloudy images dancing through memories.

He travels through corridors and the dark mixed with spots of light are just another freaking reminder that she could break through him like a child through too thin ice, drowning in his cold life. Oh, he is sure he would embrace her, pull her down to never reach the surface again, fill her lungs with poison and her body with himself. Claim her as his personal Lady of the Lake. His Nimue but he isn't Merlin. Groaning and biting down on his lip ring until it burns he tries to drown his own thoughts of desire - because he can't be nothing more - in himself and pain as well.

His steps are faster now because something is breathing down his neck. His dreams want to lure him, pull him apart, in different directions even though his soul is already in shatters, for fuck's sake. What is their goal in continuing the piece of art that is blackened shards piercing his insides? Shouldn't dreams be a way to escape? But maybe he can't because his dreams consist of controversial things. He wants to never wake up, hopes for a too high dosage but knows he is still not gone far enough to lose his intelligence. And he wants to lose himself in the sun, take her fully, against everything possible, taint her with himself and maybe even wash himself clean. Burn away the images and memories and the feelings that overwhelm him whenever he tries to forget about ampules and maybe even live again.

He finds himself on a roof, shadows and stars and blond hair dancing around him. He doesn't curse seeing the sun, he doesn't even contemplate turning around, leaving her alone because he just isn't strong enough anymore and just has to do something. Maybe he should warn her, he thinks while he slowly edges closer, breathes the air she exhales, talks himself into believing it is sweet and full of light and live, even though it is just a mixture of different gases and not at all healthy to depend on. A merciless smirk pulls at his lips. It seems he has a knack for the killing substances.

"Hey." She whispers softly, the wind carrying away that greeting. Instead of answering, he sits down next to her because his knees hurt, his joins hurt and maybe just sitting a little too close to her can heal the effects of cold turkey he should have heated.

"What are you doing here, stiff?" He asks gruffly, tries in vain to hide the pain and anger with himself and the world and freaking Erudite and woman with too much power over him.

"I can't remember seeing the sun in a long while and we aren't allowed to leave the compound…" Her sentence trails off like that and he finds himself nodding along. Clever sun, clever burning girl.

And then there is silence and they just watch. He finds himself relaxing… relaxing in a way he isn't sure someone like him deserve, but he indulges himself this one time. This one night is maybe all he needs to get enough back on track to make sure the sun raises tomorrow again.

And there is this hope again and he isn't at all surprised to find the foreign emotion intertwined with her presence, with her leg pressed against his, her warmth spreading to his aching body and even into his soul in pieces. He knows that she isn't even aware that she is his blanket tonight, that she warms his sweat soaked body, helps with the pain in his joins and the headache and the heartache.

Maybe he should at least tell her that she is his balm. Glues him back together, but unglues him at the same time. He can't tell her that she fights good, can't compliment her on being physically strong. It would be a lie and even though he is in too deep, infatuated, head over heels and bone hard just picturing her leaning her head against his shoulder, he could never lie to her. Because she is too pure to be lied to and he will taint her enough with his touches he is sure he can't hold back much longer.

They breathe in union, like one being and he scoffs silently because he never could be a part of the sun because he is too much of a shadow. A shadow of ideals, dreams and a man he could have been if it weren't for losing too much and gaining too little.

"Are you alright?" She asks softly and with baited breath he watches how she contemplates of lying her hand on his on his thigh but decides against it.

"It isn't any of your business." He lashes out and at the same time regrets that he hasn't any social skills, any idea how to confess that without her here tonight he would just jump of the roof with his enemybrother at the front of his mind and the promise he made to keep the sun safe. She doesn't flinch at his words and when he lets his eyes stray to her too young, too innocent, too fucking beautiful face, he sees a small smile on her lips he wants to taste. Maybe he would know again what happiness means, what sunshine tastes like, what freedom smells like.

"True enough. But…" He hears her swallow, follows the words up and down her throat and bites the inside of his cheek until there is only copper left. And suddenly her eyes meet his and as much as he tries, she pulls him in with kindness he doesn't deserve, with feeling that burns him.

"But know that there will always be tomorrow and maybe tomorrow it is, Eric." His name sounds strange on her lips and he sees the first shadows appear on her light because the word alone taints her. And makes her even more beautiful. If he would believe in a higher being, in deity and salvation and washing away sins he would pray in that moment.

Maybe he is lucky that his face doesn't show the impact, the crater her words leave in his soul, pull it open and the hope increases that maybe he can heal better this time. But maybe it is just his luck that he can't utter the words to bind her to him even though he wishes.

After that they stay silent again. They watch the moon fall, the stars fade, feel the wind on their skin, the silence in their bones and a companionship that should be forbidden from existing because it makes living alone impossible and a crippled being out of both of them.

He watches her, unashamed, the whole night. He breathes her in, takes everything she is unaware she gives him. And even though he feasts on her and has already tainted her in a small way, she shines like on that first day their eyes met. When her voice suddenly pierces through his delirium, he is fascinated by the childlike happiness painted in her posture, in the way her hair moves, her eyes glint, her nose crinkles lightly.

"The sun." She whispers and maybe she feels that speaking louder than that would destroy the spell they cast without knowing around them. All he can do in response is intensifying his stare at her and maybe she feels it, because she turns to him. It is all he needs to close the distance between them and kiss her neck. And she tastes like redemption and hope.

"What are you doing?" She asks, her whole body stiff and he expected to hear her voice quiver or shake or tremble. But it doesn't. All it does is inflict the light on him and the burning in his veins gets stronger. He should have known better than to expect weakness when her being screams strength. Not that she is aware of it. Not that he should indulge himself with it.

Instead of answering he continues to press his unworthy mouth against her neck, feels her pulse against his flesh, smells her. Aflame with need to soak her warmth. He is a parasite, more so now that he feels her skin under his. And he is selfish to do so. Feeding of her like that, cornering her like that. But he never was a man not taking what he wanted and his flame that was out cold until her eyes met his answers her fire. She is the sun.

And then she is on her feet, glaring at him and he smiles. Truly smiles because now he can see what makes her Dauntless. But he is also aware of the distaste displayed by clenched hands, of distrust by the thin line her mouth forms.

While he watches her go he surprisingly feels nothing, just the tingling of his own skin, the coldness in his whole body and with strength he wasn't aware was still there, he pulls himself together and goes back to his cage. His show was over.

And the ampules glisten again in the rays of sunlight. When he chucks down the spicy liquid, sees her turned back in front of his eyes, he knows why hope dies.

* * *

 _Thanks for reading - review please._


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